


The Devil You Know

by RosiePaw



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-30
Updated: 2011-07-30
Packaged: 2017-10-22 00:03:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosiePaw/pseuds/RosiePaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I was playing around with the idea of writing something based roughly on Stravinsky's <i>L'Histoire du soldat</i> - something to do with a soldier and a violin.  This story is what happened instead.</p>
    </blockquote>





	The Devil You Know

**Author's Note:**

> I was playing around with the idea of writing something based roughly on Stravinsky's _L'Histoire du soldat_ \- something to do with a soldier and a violin. This story is what happened instead.

This first thing John noticed was the quiet. When he’d finally, blessedly passed out from the pain in his pierced shoulder and shattered thigh, the stifling desert air had rung with shouts, screams and above all, gunfire. He and the rest of his unit, tired and a little bored towards the end of a too-long patrol, had been pinned down by Taliban fighters.

Now he heard nothing except the song of some distant bird. The long shadows and the first hint of the chill of desert nights told him it was evening. And, with one exception, he was alone.

The man sitting on a rock a few feet away from John fit the stereotypical portrait of a British civil servant so perfectly that it was absurd. The furled umbrella in the middle of the desert added the crowning touch.

John recognized him at once. "You’re a bit early, I’m afraid."

The gentleman raised an eyebrow. "You’re making two assumptions. One is that you’re already damned. There is, of course, the matter of the sixth commandment. However, the other side is quite liberal in their use of the ‘just war’ loophole. I doubt that you would have any trouble meeting their criteria."

"Then you’re here to bargain. What, my life in exchange for my soul?"

"Your second assumption is that you’re on the verge of death."

John looked pointedly at the bloody mess of his thigh, shards of bone piercing the skin. It was queer how he could feel the pain of his injuries only in the most dim and distant way, as if he’d been shot up with some sort of miracle morphine that didn’t affect his thought processes or other senses.

The gentleman shrugged. "Hardly a fatal injury given the wonders of modern medicine, although of course the leg will never be what it was. As for your shoulder, well, modern medicine can be a mixed blessing. It’s a shame about the MRSA infection. But that, too, will not be fatal."

"You’ll be discharged, of course. I’m afraid your pension will be wholly inadequate and your injuries and PTSD will disqualify you from ever working as a surgeon again. However, you will be quite alive the day you find yourself sitting in your little beige bedsit with a bottle of cheap whiskey, contemplating the possibilities offered by your illegal service revolver."

"And then I _will_ be damned," John pointed out.

"Only if you follow through. Which you may or may not. I’m hardly one to downplay the importance of free will. I’ve had my own ‘rebellion,’ as the other side calls it."

"I’ve got a third assumption – that there’s a point to this conversation. Wrong?"

"No, quite correct. I _am_ here to bargain. Your damnation is currently only possible. I wish to secure it. In return, I’m offering... an alternative to the beige bedsit. Something more comfortable."

"That’s rather vague."

"Ah, I see you’re no easy mark." The gentleman sounded approving. "Let’s say... A wife. Intelligent, spirited, attractive, charming."

"What am I supporting her on?" John asked sceptically.

"Oh, but you’re not. She’s a fellow doctor. Helps you get some locum work."

"Despite the fact that I can barely walk, have a bad shoulder, PTSD..."

"You might not be as crippled as all that, Dr. Watson. These details are, to some degree, adjustable. As I was saying, you meet this charming doctor. You date her a while, eventually move into her flat. The two of you end up with a suburban practice, a nice house, children..."

John thought of the children he’d seen in Afghanistan. Sometimes they ran to meet British soldiers, asking for treats. Sometimes they carried messages or weapons for the Taliban. Sometimes, the same children did both.

He wasn’t sure that his presence here was doing them any good, but he liked to think it might be. That he had some purpose.

"I see I’ve miscalculated," said the gentleman.

"It’s not a bad offer," John demurred. "It’s just... I don’t know... A bit boring?"

"Your time with the army has given you a taste for excitement, then."

John’s eyes narrowed. "Not just excitement. We’re not here on some thrill-seeking lark."

"Excitement combined with a sense of purpose. And, I would guess, the comradeship of your fellow soldiers. The intimacy created by shared danger. Yes, that would be it... If you’ll allow me to modify my offer, Dr. Watson?"

"Feel free."

"Your soul in exchange for a life free from boredom. Excitement and purpose. Comradeship. Danger and intimacy."

"Sounded a bit like an army recruitment advertisement until you added that last bit."

The gentleman smiled slowly. "I _am_ in a position to promise and deliver specifications that the government can not."

"How long do I have to think this over?"

"Quite literally no time at all, I’m afraid."

John had already noticed that the shadows hadn’t lengthened one inch since he’d awakened. Time had nothing to do with this conversation. And in truth, he didn’t need time to decide. "All right, then. I agree. Er, I assume I need to sign something? There’s plenty of blood around, but I’m left-handed and this shoulder will make it difficult to execute a legible signature."

"Allow me," said the gentleman, presenting what appeared to be a computer touch pad. "We use biometrics these days. A dab of blood impressed with your thumb print will be quite sufficient."

John took a breath, dabbed and pressed.

***

John awoke a second time to heat, noise and Bill Murray’s voice.

"Hang on there, Captain. We’ve got medics coming. We’ll get you to a field hospital, get your shoulder looked after."

"An’ my leg," John reminded him. He was surprised to hear his own voice sounding so weak and slurred. It had been clear just a moment before, hadn’t it? Wait – before what, exactly?

"Captain? You can hear me? That’s good, just hang on. Your shoulder..."

"My _leg_."

"Sir? You were shot in the shoulder, sir. There’s nothing wrong with your leg. Now just hang on..."

***

There was nothing wrong with his leg – nothing except that it hurt like bloody hell and that he had to use a cane to walk. However, the MRSA, the PTSD, the discharge, the pension and the beige bedsit were all as predicted. So were the bottle of whiskey and the revolver.

John looked at the gun in his hands and thought about tomorrow and the day after that and all the crippled, beige days to come.

He thought, well, that’s what comes of striking bargains with the Father of Lies.

Then he thought, you bastard, I won’t give you the satisfaction. Not today, anyway.

He put the gun and the bottle away, got his cane and went out. Which was how he came to run into Mike Stamford. And to meet Sherlock Holmes. And, for the second time, the gentleman with the umbrella.

***

"Slow to deliver and quick to collect, aren’t you? I suppose this is when you point out to me that the contract I signed didn’t specify a duration for my exciting, dangerous new life."

It wasn’t the most polite of greetings, but what with all the nonsense with the black car and the warehouse, John didn’t feel like being polite.

"Dr. Watson. You should learn to stop making hasty and erroneous assumptions. As it happens, I’m not here to collect on our agreement. Almost the opposite. I can see from your left hand that you’re settling in nicely."

"Or you could try asking me."

"Not necessary. Your hand is perfectly steady, with no sign of the intermittent tremor that’s been plaguing you since Afghanistan. Your therapist thinks you’re haunted by the war, Dr. Watson, but she’s wrong. You miss it. So... I’ve given it back to you. Excitement and purpose, comradeship and danger."

"What happened to intimacy?"

"Patience, doctor. All in good time."

"Fine. You’ve established that things are going according to plan – to your plan, at least. Does this mean I can leave?"

"Not yet, I’m afraid. Really, won’t you sit down? No? As you like. I’d like to offer you a small assignment. Nothing complicated or time-consuming, and of course there’ll be some remuneration."

"I thought I was already bought and paid for."

"To be precise, all that I presently own is the right to warehouse your soul after death. But why be an inventory item when you can be... let’s say, an agent?"

"The assignment you’re offering is a recruiting exercise."

"Very good, Dr. Watson."

"And the assignment itself is..."

"To report to me from time to time on your new flatmate."

"The new flatmate you arranged for me."

"That would be the one. I don’t need or even want to know anything overly personal. Just general updates as to his activities, people he meets with, that sort of thing."

"No."

"Really. You needn’t decide immediately."

"You forget. I have _experience_ in making crucial decisions with no time to think them over. The answer is no."

"Then you’re free to leave. My assistant will have you driven home."

"Hang on. What’s Sherlock to you, anyway? A conveniently available prop for fulfilling your bargain with me? Or another post-death inventory asset?"

"Neither. And a better question to ask would be, what am I to Sherlock?"

"And the answer?"

"I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having."

"Which is..."

"An enemy. At least, that’s how he thinks of me. If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his archenemy. He does love to be dramatic."

"Well, thank, ah, Whomever you're above all that."

" _Good day_ , Dr. Watson."

***

"I met a friend of yours today."

"A friend?"

"Well, an enemy."

"Oh! Which one?"

"Your archenemy, according to him. Do people have archenemies?"

"Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

"Yes."

"Did you take it?"

"Er... no."

"Pity, we could've split the fee. Think it through next time."

***

John met the gentleman with umbrella for the third time shortly after he shot and killed a man for the first time as a civilian. And then _giggled_ with Sherlock about it while still at the crime scene. Still, of all the evening’s events, the thing that most astounded him was...

"He’s your brother?"

Sherlock barely glanced up from the plate of dim sum he was playing with. "Of course he’s my brother."

"So you’re not..."

"Not what?"

"A post-death inventory asset."

This time Sherlock _did_ look up properly.

"A _what_?"

"It seemed like something you might do. Trade off a part of yourself you probably don’t think exists in exchange for unlimited access to crime scenes and corpses, with a complaisant flatmate thrown in for good measure."

"Not quite."

"No?"

"I would also have made sure the contract included a steady supply of cocaine with no unwanted physical or psychological side effects."

"Ah, of course. But there is no such contract, because you’re not human. The ‘high-functioning sociopath’ nonsense is a cover story for the fact that you’re... Or no, you might be..."

Sherlock actually laughed. "John, _no_. Angels exist, but I’m not one of them."

"Just as well. It would be awkward sharing a flat with an angel, having all one’s human frailties exposed on a daily basis."

"Only if the angel in question had been assigned to amend them. For the most part, angels do what they’re assigned to do, nothing less – or more."

"Right, I’d forgotten. It’s the likes of you and Mycroft who represent the _rebellious_ branch of the family."

"And some of us are more rebellious than others," Sherlock smirked. Then he dropped the smirk and said quite seriously, "John, I’ll ask this again. Are you all right?"

"I... I don’t know, really. I thought I killed a man to save your life. That was okay. But your life was never really in any danger, was it?"

"My continued existence? No. My continued existence in this particular time, place and form? Perhaps. Resurrections raise too many tedious questions. It’s simpler to start over. Is this relevant to my question?"

"Isn’t it?"

"Not really. You had a limited time in which to choose your course of action. You made your choice on the basis of the available information. Surely the concept is familiar to you, both as a doctor and a soldier?"

John drew in a breath, exhaled. "Yes, it is. Except... If _you’re_ trying to help me feel less guilty about this, doesn’t that confirm it was wrong and I should feel _more_ guilty?"

"I’m doing nothing of the sort," Sherlock replied primly. "It’s the other side that entertains itself with issues of guilt and innocence. I merely observe evidence and deduce facts.

The corners of John’s mouth began to turn up, almost against his will. This should _not_ be funny.

"Now since you’re done eating, can we leave?" Sherlock continued.

"Hang on, there. You said you could predict our fortune cookies."

"Of course I can. Yours is, ‘A new journey begins today.’"

"Subtle, that. And yours?"

"’The first key to wisdom is assiduous and frequent questioning.’"

John snickered. "I don’t think fortune cookies use words like ‘assiduous’, Sherlock," he commented as he cracked open his cookie. He unfolded the slip of paper.

 __

 _A man is known by the company he keeps._

His grin faded. He looked across the table in time to see Sherlock grimace at his own slip, tear it in two and shove the crumpled pieces into a pocket. Then Sherlock rose to his feet, slung his coat over his shoulders and strode out of the restaurant.

John hastily paid the bill and followed.

***

By the time John had followed Sherlock to his dozenth or so crime scene, it had occurred to him to wonder why Sherlock was helping the police _catch_ the criminals.

"It doesn’t make sense, you see," he explained as they crouched in a filthy alley, waiting for their suspect to appear. "They’re doing wrong, right? So shouldn’t you be helping them do it? Maybe tutoring them in how to do it better?"

"Boring," shrugged Sherlock.

"All right, then, what about _designing_ crimes? I should think that any number of people would sell their souls in exchange for the perfect crime."

"I’ve done that from time to time, over the centuries," Sherlock admitted. "But it’s always less than satisfactory, because no one else is brilliant enough to truly appreciate my work. No, I find it more entertaining to unravel others’ puzzles."

"They’re _crimes_ , Sherlock, not the Sunday Times crossword."

"Which adds to their interest."

"So it’s all about your entertainment, is it?"

"Not entirely. I’ve simply managed to negotiate an assignment which I happen to find tolerable."

"An assignment to _stop_ people from committing crimes?"

"I don’t stop them. I analyse their performance after the crime is already committed."

"And then you give the information to the police."

"No reason not to. And I only give _some_ of the information to the police. John, when you decided to join the army, did they snap you up the moment you asked?"

"Not quite, although being a trained surgeon certainly helped. I still had to do the AOSB briefing... Ah. You’re part of the recruiting process."

"Precisely. We need to know who’s not worth being handled as anything more than – as you put it – an inventory asset..."

"’Inventory’ was Mycroft’s word, actually."

"...and who might be suited for more interesting assignments."

"Hang on, if Mycroft’s recruiting and you’re testing potential recruits, what was he going on about? All that about belonging on the same side and having more in common that you believe?"

"Mycroft works on a larger scale than I do."

"The British government. The Secret Service, the CIA."

"Yes. But human beings _en masse_ become generalized and boring. I much prefer the quirks of individual crimes."

"Mycroft attempted to recruit _me_. I’m an individual."

Sherlock’s lips traced a suggestion of a smile. "Very much so. And Mycroft’s personal involvement in your case makes me suspicious." The not-quite-smile vanished. "John, my brother never does anything for only one reason."

"Is that a warning?"

"It’s whatever you take it to be. But know this: contracts of the type you signed always have a loophole. It’s intrinsic to the structure of the binding."

"And this loophole is?"

"Something only a human could see and different for each human. In most cases, people’s lives run out before they find it – if they ever start looking at all."

"Sherlock, why are you telling me this?"

Sherlock uncoiled to his full height and looked down at John.

"Because it will be _entertaining_ to watch you trying to solve the puzzle. Why else? And now, I believe our man is approaching."

***

Not that John followed Sherlock _everywhere_. In fact, when he arrived home late one afternoon to discover that Sherlock had gone off somewhere without him, he quite relished the prospect of a quiet evening by himself. This was before he went to make himself a cup of tea and discovered that they were out of milk. Again.

A quick trip downstairs to see if he might borrow some milk from Mrs. Hudson turned into staying and having tea _with_ Mrs. Hudson. It was while John was sitting idly in her sitting room – she’d chased him out of the kitchen – that he noticed the framed photo on the mantelpiece. It showed a younger Mrs. Hudson and a man her own age, arms around each other as they smiled for the camera. The photo had been taken outdoors, and the couple’s clothing suggested a warm climate. The man was good-looking in a thickset sort of way, his hairline beginning to recede just a bit.

"That was taken in Florida, dear," Mrs. Hudson noted as she carried the tray in.

Florida?

"It was taken just before Henry, well, I’m sure Sherlock’s told you about him."

"Sherlock _did_ mention your late husband," John replied cautiously.

"His name was Henry, dear. He may not have been a good man, but he was a good husband. Don’t mistake me, I’m glad he was stopped. I’ll never forget listening to the statements from his victims’ families, I cried and cried. But there hasn’t been a day gone by that I don’t miss him." Mrs. Hudson looked pensive. "Oh, well, it won’t be forever. Sherlock had that brother of his arrange things."

"Ah, arrange things how, Mrs. Hudson?"

"I’ll be joining Henry. After, you know."

"You mean..."

Mrs. Hudson sniffed and dabbed her eyes with her sleeve. "Couldn’t stand spending eternity without him, dear."

***

"Is that what the souls of the damned sound like in hell, Sherlock?" John demanded as he stomped down the stairs from his bedroom.

Sherlock paused, bow in mid-air, violin still tucked under his chin. "Not particularly. Why do you ask?"

"Because it’s 2’o’clock in the bloody morning and the only excuse I could think of that might _possibly_ justify the din you’re making would be extreme homesickness."

"Why are you assuming justification is necessary? Speaking of necessary, I need some tea."

"I’m not making you anything with caffeine in it at this hour. I’m making _myself_ a mug of hot chocolate which I’m going to take back upstairs to enjoy before I go back to sleep."

Sherlock flung himself backwards onto the sofa – taking care, John noted, not to land on his violin – and sulked.

It was only after John was back in his bedroom sipping his hot chocolate that strains of melody began to drift up the stairs, flowing, plaintive and sweet. Sherlock was still playing as John finished the mug and set it down on the nightstand, got under the covers and turned off the light. He fell asleep listening.

He was reviewing charts at the clinic the next day when one of the nurses commented, "I didn’t know you were a classical music fan, doctor."

John flushed as he realized he’d been humming the melody Sherlock had played hours before. "Er, I’m not, really. It’s just that my flatmate was playing that tune on his violin last, ah, evening."

"He must be quite good, then. It’s a bloody difficult piece! They say Tchaikovsky wrote it for his boyfriend, but the boyfriend refused to play it and they broke up."

John wondered if Sherlock had ever met Tchaikovsky in person. And if so, before or after death?

***

John came home to discover Sherlock on his back on the sofa, his head hanging off one end.

"Have you been lying there all day, you lazy devil?"

"No case. I’m bored," complained Sherlock without moving.

"Go out and tempt someone into sin or something."

"I’m already engaged in providing _you_ with a fine example of one of the seven deadly sins."

"Sloth."

"Precisely. And it’s exhausting. I need tea."

"I’m not sure _one_ sin is worth my tea-making services."

"I also regularly exemplify pride and wrath, with occasional forays into envy."

"Four out of seven. All right, I suppose that gets you tea. But you’re greedy only for attention..."

" _I_ wasn’t the one who turned down Mycroft’s spying offer."

"...and you’re rubbish at gluttony."

"For information when I’m on a case?"

"Doesn’t count. And we’re also not counting your marriage to your work as an example of lust."

A moment’s silence and then –

"Are we not?" Sherlock replied in a rumbling purr. The sudden change in tone made John, already on his way into the kitchen, stop and turn. Sherlock was now sitting – no, _sprawling_ with one arm stretched along the back of the sofa and his legs spread blatantly apart. John looked into those pale grey eyes and found he couldn’t look away.

"I am no incubus, John. I don’t seduce humans... on assignment." Sherlock smiled slowly, so slowly. "And remember, _you_ were the one who raised this topic of conversation." He blinked lazily, then – finally – turned his head slightly away.

John shivered hard, once, all over. And went to get the tea, his head buzzing with questions he wasn’t quite ready to ask.

***

John continued to follow Sherlock, followed him right to the day when they stood by the side of the pool, John wearing Semtex, reciting Moriarty’s words until Moriarty decided to speak for himself.

After Moriarty vanished and the red lights of the laser sights winked out, after Sherlock had ripped the explosives off John, after their mutual reassurances of all-rightness, then Sherlock stammered – _stammered_ –

"That, ah – thing that you did. That you, um, you offered to do. That was, uh..."

"Pretty stupid, right? I forgot you wouldn’t be killed. Well, your, ah, current form would be, I guess. But not _you_."

"And not Moriarty either," replied Sherlock grimly. "John, my apologies. He fooled me completely at our first meeting."

John blinked, both at the admission and the implication. "I take it that Moriarty’s not just your latest, surprisingly adept recruit."

"Moriarty’s not human, and Jim from IT was mere cannon fodder. Do you understand how possession works?"

"Not from personal experience," John replied drily. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, unamused.

"At the time we met Moriarty in Molly’s company, there was enough of ‘Jim’ still left that Moriarty was able to burrow deep, disguise his true nature from me. He knew I’d realize he was hiding something, so he gave me something more obvious to find."

"By playing gay."

"Quite so. And I fell for it. If I hadn’t, you never would have been placed in this degree of danger."

"Danger was a condition of my bargain with Mycroft," John pointed out gently. "Safety was never the point."

And then Moriarty returned.

***

Hospitals are never completely silent. Even at night, staff go about their rounds, machinery hums, the ventilation hisses softly. Between the background noises and the sharp scents in the air, John knew where he was the moment he awoke.

What he was not expecting was that when he opened his eyes, he’d find Mycroft Holmes standing next to his bed.

"Sh – " he croaked, and then started coughing.

Mycroft poured him a half-glass of water from a bedside pitcher, helped him hold it to drink.

"Sherlock," demanded John.

"Hell," Mycroft began.

"No. _Sherlock_." The coughing started up. Again. Mycroft had to help him with the glass. Again.

"A moment’s patience, Dr. Watson. Both for me – and for yourself. As I was saying, Hell has its own politics. Moriarty likes to think himself a major player. In fact, he’s a china plate dancing on a shelf as power balances shift like tectonic plates far below."

"And you’re, what, a serving platter?" retorted John. And took a few sips all on his own.

"Ah, recovering quickly, I see. I’m pleased - no, really," Mycroft insisted to John’s raised eyebrows. "I _haven’t_ come to collect, and I’m honestly pleased to see you doing better."

Their bargain. The thought of it hadn’t even crossed John’s mind, it was so focussed on:

"Sherlock."

"May need to be convinced that his abilities will now be better employed at some other assignment, in some other form. The injuries to his current form are sufficiently severe to make this a convenient time for such a transition."

"No."

"Please be assured that despite the changed conditions, my bargain with you _will_ still be honoured. I’ll simply need to make a few new arrangements. They’ll be in place by the time you’re discharged."

"I said, no."

"Doctor, if Moriarty is a china plate, you are..."

"A potential recruit. A potential _agent_. What’s that worth to you, Mycroft?"

Mycroft looked... unsurprised. "More than nothing, less than you may hope. I take it you’ve become attached to having Sherlock as your flatmate? You’d be well advised to remember that such attachments are a _human_ trait."

"Thank you for the advice," said John grimly. "But it doesn’t affect my terms. The first term is that the rest of them only come into effect if Sherlock gives his free and informed consent.

Mycroft’s gaze became suddenly more focussed.

"Second, as you’ve guessed, I want Sherlock to continue as my flatmate – in his current form, mind you. I’m not waking up one morning and finding an infant Sherlock on my doorstep. Also, he’s to have no permanent physical or psychological injuries from the explosion."

"I’m impressed by your specifications, doctor."

"I’m not done. You’re not suddenly showing up to collect next week, either. I want the next thirty years, both of us together, natural aging rates."

Mycroft pursed his lips, but John was still talking. "And then, after, I want a permanent partnership. On whatever assignments, in whatever forms are required, that’s fine, but we’re always to be assigned together."

" _If_ Sherlock consents."

"Would _you_ like to be tied to your brother for eternity _without_ his consent?"

Mycroft huffed a small laugh. "I take your point, doctor. You realize, don’t you, that you’re no longer describing a contract of recruitment?"

John shrugged.

"I see. And if Sherlock does _not_ consent? Even arranging matters to make it possible for me to ask him will take some trouble on my part. Where is my recompense for this effort?"

 __

Right, thought John. Here we go.

"What, Mycroft, not a gambling man? You’ve nothing to lose here – you’re already assured of me as inventory, at the very least. Your ‘recompense’ is the chance to gain something we both know you want. It’s like spending two pounds on a EuroMillions ticket, except with better odds."

Mycroft eyed John – one moment. Two. And then, oddly enough, he began to smile.

He produced the touch pad John had seen once before. John dabbed, pressed, and Mycroft put the pad away. He was now smiling broadly. He put John in mind of an exceptionally genial shark.

"Do let me know when time comes for the happy announcement, Dr. Watson. You and my brother..."

He was interrupted by a sudden increase in noise from the next room – machinery beeping, people bustling in response, sharp questions asked, orders given. Names were paged over the intercom, several more people arrived and a dark-haired nurse appeared in John’s doorway.

"Mr. Holmes, your brother, he’s not – he’s showing signs..."

Mycroft allowed her to tug him out the door.

John, left alone, lay back and grinned at the ceiling.

***

John knew the exact moment that Sherlock found out John was in the next room. It was marked by a nurse’s outcry as Sherlock attempted to get out of bed with no regard for his own battered body, followed by the crash of an overturned IV stand. Then came a thud that almost had _John_ jumping out of bed, as it was all too clearly the sound of 70 kilos or so of collapsing Sherlock. Two more nurses went past John’s door, heading for Sherlock’s room.

"Get his feet," someone said, and they were apparently loading Sherlock back into bed.

Poor Sherlock. Either his human form only healed at human speeds, or the delay was required for verisimilitude.

The hospital didn’t allow mobiles, the nurses refused to pass notes and John’s knowledge of Morse code was insufficient for him to interpret tapping on the walls.

Taking pity, John talked his own doctor into letting him go for a short visit.

"Hullo, Sherlock," he said from the doorway of Sherlock’s room.

"What have you done?" Sherlock demanded.

John hobbled in and arranged himself and his bandages on the uncomfortable chair next to Sherlock’s bed before he answered.

"Got Mycroft to take a bit of a gamble."

"It’s hardly gambling when he’s written the rules of the game – or hadn’t you realized that? No, of course you didn’t! That’s why he approached you in Afghanistan even though he _never_ works on individual cases, and why he attempted to recruit you as a spy. He’s wanted you paired with me all along, probably thinks it will make me easier to control..."

"Look, Sherlock, you’re the one who gets his kicks by saying ‘no’ to whatever Mycroft proposes," John cut in. " _I_ have no trouble cooperating with him when his purposes coincide with my own."

"You have _no_ idea as to the scope of Mycroft’s purposes. Furthermore, as a human you’re psychologically incapable of having any _real_ understanding of just how long eternity is, yet you’ve blithely bound us together for the duration."

John froze. "I specified that your consent was required – your _free_ and informed consent. Sherlock, if he forced you in some way..."

"No, he didn’t ‘force’ me. He _manipulated_ me." Sherlock sounded as if he would have preferred being forced. "He mentioned ever-so-offhandedly that it was quite all right if I didn’t consent, because he’d have no great trouble finding you another placement. And of course he wouldn’t. He’d find someone else who appeals to your peculiar combination of nurturing instinct and addiction to danger, someone certainly less competent than I am – if they even bother to _try_ – to cater to the latter while simultaneously protecting you..."

"Protecting me?" John asked faintly.

Sherlock looked briefly startled, as if he hadn’t quite meant to use those words, but he rallied quickly. "From the results of your own idiocy."

"Bollocks," said John. "By your own admission, Sherlock, you’re no angel. You didn’t agree solely to save me from myself. You gave your consent – freely?"

Sherlock glared sullenly, but nodded.

"You gave your consent _despite_ having deduced Mycroft’s machinations. You wouldn’t have done that if you didn’t find my presence at least... tolerable."

"More than tolerable," muttered Sherlock.

"Useful? Perhaps... occasionally interesting?" John was teasing now and didn’t care if his manner gave that away.

Sherlock appeared to be studying the wall next to John. "I agreed because I wanted to," he said, his voice low.

It was more of an admission than John had expected.

"Thank you," he said, and found himself going a bit hoarse.

But Sherlock surprised him again. "You’re welcome, John." And then, grey eyes meeting dark blue directly, "You _are_ welcome."

Eternity, John thought, was looking as if it might turn out all right after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock’s prediction of his own fortune is actually a quote from Pierre Abelard, the medieval philosopher, logician and theologian.
> 
> The melody Sherlock plays for John is the second movement of Tchaikovsky’s Violin Concerto in D Major. Tchaikovsky wanted – but didn’t dare – to dedicate the concerto to his lover, violinist Iosif Kotek. He broke up with Kotek three years later after the violinist refused to play the work. Have a listen at <http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IgrUb2IS9sI>.


End file.
